


Horseplay

by pyrrhum



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, M/M, Smut, Sparring turned into sex trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhum/pseuds/pyrrhum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s eighteen for fuck’s sakes, can anybody really expect him to control adrenaline boners?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horseplay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rupphires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rupphires/gifts).



> me: idk if im really into mcreaper?
> 
> the bff: "dont look at my boner while we fight" is mcreaper
> 
> me, opening up a google doc: shit

“Again.”

Flipped, slammed, knee digging into his chest and a knife at his throat.

“Again.”

Easily side-stepped, tripped, a sharp landing on his chin and a boot between his shoulder blades.

“When I say ‘again’, _cabrón_ , I mean to _try_ again.”

Reyes removes his boot from between McCree’s shoulder blades, letting him up off the ground. McCree raises himself to his hands and knees, arms shaking under his deadweight, and takes a moment to breathe. Blood pools in his mouth, he’s just chomped his tongue between his teeth when he hit the floor of the sparring ring this time, lower jaw slamming up when his chin made contact.

Reyes lifts the toe of his boot to McCree’s ribs, nudging him. “Get up,” he orders. 

When he doesn’t, still panting heavily, Reyes continues.

“Are you a dog?” he mocks. “Get up on your two legs. _Que huevon_.”

McCree spits, a disgusting mix of saliva and blood, and pushes himself onto his feet.

They have been sparring for the past hour, and McCree just wants some goddamned _peace_. The entire training facility is empty, shut down, shy for the two of them in the boxing ring and a sole light burning above them. Rightfully so, it’s close to 2am. Anyone in their right mind is tucked into their beds, covers pulled up tight, getting some good shut-eye. 

Then again, anyone in their right mind did not have Gabriel Reyes as their commander.

McCree throws up his fists again, ready to go. Reyes had overrode the PIN lock on his door and, quite literally, dragged him out of bed and down to the training facilities, where a tired McCree complained, “C’mon, it’s like, one-fucking-a.m., can’t a guy just take some time to have a few sweet dreams?” 

Gotta be ready for anything, Reyes said. Trouble doesn’t wait for you to get a good night’s rest. 

They are fist-fighting, except for the fact that Reyes has a knife in hand, telling him that he should always expect the enemy to have the upper hand. When McCree said that he was gonna accidentally drive that thing through his ribs, still solely in his boxers and an undershirt, Reyes muttered, “Don’t tempt me, kid.”

McCree lunges forward, planning to land a punch straight to Reyes dumb, smirking face, but Reyes blocks the blow and twists them around, slamming McCree to his knees in a chokehold. God, he can’t fucking _breathe_ , he can’t--

McCree taps Reyes’ arm desperately, and then all but collapses onto his hands again when the man lets go, regaining the ability to breathe again, panting on the dirty floor.

“I brought you here to make you better, and you’re just getting worse,” Reyes complains loudly. “Are you even trying?”

“Maybe if ya’ hadn’t thrown me in here in the small hours of the mornin’, I could be yielding some better results,” McCree grumbles.

“Pah,” Reyes sounds unconvinced. “You’re just not trying hard enough.”

McCree’s blood boils, the way it always does when he’s taunted. Reyes always has a way of making him feel the most inadequate, less than the gum stuck to the bottom of his boots. If McCree just pushes himself harder, harder, _harder_ to impress him, to show him he ain’t just some fuck-up with a weird sense of morals and a good shot that Reyes picked from Deadlock’s ashes, _then_ maybe he can sleep soundly at night. But no one can impress Gabriel Reyes, not super-soldier before he even entered the program Reyes, not no mercy, Blackwatch head, the vice to corn-fed Jack Morrison, _Gabriel goddamn Reyes._

McCree gets to his feet, pushes his sweat-slicked hair away from his face, and throws up his fists again.

“You’re too obvious,” Reyes comments, almost nonchalant, like he’s not dressed head-to-toe in battle gear and doesn’t have a knife in hand. The thing has nicked McCree’s skin a few times, drawing a little blood, but of course Reyes knows how to wield it without causing any permanent damage. “Honestly, kid, I can see your moves before you even do.”

McCree breathes heavily, steadies his bare feet on the ground, and asks, “How do I mask it, then?”

Reyes sneers at him. “Be better.”

“Well if ya’ ain’t gonna gimme pointers on _how-to_ , then how the hell am I supposed to—”

“Feign your weight in one direction, but swing with the other.” Reyes stands there, waiting for him, body language open and vulnerable, but McCree _knows better_. “C’mon, I’ll even give you a free shot.”

Taking in a deep breath, McCree feigns left, throwing his weight, and then tries to swing with as much force as possible with his right. 

What ends up happening is McCree stumbling, footing uncertain, and he only just grazes his commanding office with the skin of his knuckles, hardly even enough to move his head. With a laugh, Reyes shoves him away sharply. McCree staggers backwards, almost falling flat on his ass. _Almost_. He saves it last minute.

Doesn’t stop his embarrassment, though. He can’t even land a punch with Reyes just standing there.

“I know you’re better than this, _cabrón_ ,” Reyes mocks.

McCree just seethes, silently, desperately trying to stamp down his anger. Yeah, he _is_ better than this, but he’s better with a gun in his hand and a hat on his head, out in the field with the adrenaline of a mission pumping through his bloodstream. He’s better when Reyes is on his side, this brick wall of a man thankfully recruited to the proclaimed _good guys_ , even if the work Reyes himself ended up doing wasn’t exactly _good_. 

He’s better, McCree thinks wryly, when he’s not in his boxers and undershirt at two in the fuckin’ morning against a super soldier two decades older than him in full blown battle gear.

The words are there, sharp on his tongue, ready to lash out, but he holds back. Even if McCree is his star pupil (which he only found out after Morrison let it slip), Reyes won’t hesitate to kick his ass into next month when he got angry.

“Did I make a mistake, letting you slide past the authorities and right under my wing?” Reyes continues. “Why so silent, _caco_? Did you rattle that brain a little too much last time you fell on your ass?”

“Go fuck yourself,” McCree spits out. “This ain’t trainin’, this is you needing a punchin’ bag.”

“Don’t get saucy with me, kid,” Reyes warns, the smirk fading from his scar-riddled face just slightly. 

“Just sayin’, you wanna train me to be able to hold my own in a fistfight—” which he can, thank-you-kindly, just maybe not against _Reyes_ , “—then put down the knife, take off your fancy gear and fight me like a real man.”

Reyes throws down his knife.

Five minutes later, with Reyes down to his jeans, boots, and undershirt, they circle each other in the ring.

“I’m not gonna hold back, _chaval_ ,” he tells McCree. “You want a lesson? I’ll give you a fuckin’ lesson.”

It’s Reyes who makes the first move, suddenly springing forward and landing a heavy-handed punch straight to McCree’s left cheek. The younger man stumbles back, but stays on his feet, and ducks under Reyes arm this time at the second lunge. In an unexpected opening, McCree uses it to kick Reyes in the small of his back, sending him staggering forward and to the edge of the ring, grasping at the ropes to steady himself.

“Not bad,” Reyes says, turning around to hide the now dirty footprint on the back of his undershirt. “I underestimated you there, for a second.”

“Thought ya’ said you weren’t gonna hold back?” McCree taunts a little, knowing its cocky, but letting it all go to his head like usual. Reyes and Morrison and Amari always said he was too overconfident, too proud of his gunslinging abilities to see his flaws, but that wasn’t necessarily true. He only puffed out his chest when he had reason to: a bullseye from the next building over, a wild spray of shots that hit all enemies but one man, an almost kick to his commanding officer’s ass. 

Reyes growls—yeah, he fucking growls, from deep in his chest—and barrels towards McCree, swings, McCree sidesteps, landing an instep with his heel directly to Reyes toes, but they’re boot-clad and it doesn’t make a goddamned difference. Reyes lands a blow to McCree’s solar plexus, knocking the wind straight from his lungs, but he drops to avoid the next swing that would’ve hit his nose, and lands a kick to Reyes’ bad knee.

The older man grunts, and grabs a handful of hair on McCree’s head, yanking him up so they’re face to face. “You wanna play dirty?” he sneers, eyes narrowed.

McCree swallows, fear bubbling in his stomach. Instead of answering, he knees Reyes in the stomach.

The man keens over, and McCree barrels straight into him, knocking the two of them to the dusty, dirt ridden floor, and there’s the familiar pump of adrenaline, heart hammering, single mind focused, as they wrestle. Reyes quickly gets the upper-hand again, and McCree tries to crawl away, suddenly knowing that, without a doubt, he’s totally and utterly _fucked_. The older man just flips him over and pins him, wrists above his head with one large hand, the other expertly on his windpipe, there as a reminder that he’s lost without applying pressure, knees on either sides of McCree’s hips, keeping him there—

And only then does McCree realize he has a boner.

To be fair, he’s only at half mast, and also he’s _eighteen_ for fuck’s sakes, can anybody really expect him to control adrenaline boners?

Apparently, by the smirk on Reyes’ face, he is. 

“This doin’ it for you, cowboy?” he whispers, voice low, eyes dark and scarred face close to his, and he just barely tightens the grip on McCree’s throat. A hairs-length.

McCree chokes out a sudden moan, face burning, and his hips buck a little.

He’s so fuckin’ _embarrassed_. He could chalk it up to the adrenaline of the fight, skin-to-skin contact, but there’s more to it. There are several factors involved, including McCree’s longstanding crush on his superior officer, and his like of being manhandled. Too many goddamn variables. Throw all those things in a blender, and it’s a wet dream waiting to happen; in McCree’s mind anyway.

“Can’t believe this got you hot and bothered,” Reyes practically snarls, teeth bared like a dog. A wolf, McCree corrects himself. Much more feral. He tries to yank his wrists free from their restrained position over his head, but Reyes just tightens that grip too.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls, grinding his hips down violently and—and he’s hard too, McCree realizes. They’re hip to hip, and even through his jeans, there’s nothing to hide. 

“Sir?” McCree says, voice strained, and Reyes leans down, face impossibly close, their noses are brushing, and for a brief moment McCree thinks they’re gonna kiss—

But instead he just maintains eye contact, and whispers gruffly, “This okay?” His hand flexes on McCree’s throat, then loosens. McCree’s hips move on their own accord, desperately trying to get friction, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat now. That’s all the affirmative Reyes needs. 

“You like this? Eh?” Reyes mutters, grip tightening a little again, enough to make McCree wheeze out a breath but not enough to restrict his breathing. The hands of a killer, wrapped around his throat. McCree should probably be more afraid, but he’s mostly just turned on, rutting against the man above him, dick straining in his boxers. “Like bein’ held down? I should, _uunf_ ,” he groans, forehead pressed to McCree’s, humping more furiously, “I should just have my way with you, on this floor.”

Holy God in heaven. McCree closes his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing, desperately trying not to cream his pants right there, but Reyes barks, “Eyes on me when I’m talking to you!”

McCree’s eyes fly open, and Reyes is right there, still, dark eyes boring into his with intensity. They’re rocking against each other, more Reyes using him as a source of delicious friction, and McCree is just there along for the ride. The sweet, agonizing, mind-numbing arousalfilled ride. 

“God, fuck, you should see yourself.” Reyes withdraws a little, looming over McCree to get a good look at him. His hips slow considerably, a leisurely grind, and McCree whines, the noise coming from the back of his throat. He still has his wrists pinned over his head, and his fingers flex, desperate to grab onto something. “Red in the face, whining, _begging_ for it.” Reyes groans. “You’d look amazing with a handprint bruised on your pretty little neck.” He squeezes, and for just a moment McCree is denied oxygen, the one moment he desperately needs it, but then the hand relaxes on his throat, just resting there. McCree gulps down lungfuls of air.

Reyes picks up speed again, his hips working faster, faster, and McCree feels dizzy with it. It’s like all his pent up energy is building in this moment, desperately trying to break free, and McCree’s never been this hard in his fucking _life_.

“You gonna cum, cowboy?” Reyes asks, sounding breathless. 

McCree moans.

“Say it, use that pretty mouth of yours.” Reyes does small movements against him, not nearly enough. “You never stop talking, say you’re…”

“I’m gonna cum!” McCree gasps out, trying desperately to rock his hips upward. “Fuck, oh, fuckin…”

“You’re so desperate you’re willing to cream your pants?” Reyes asks, eyes never leaving his face.

“Yes!” Reyes always gets what he wants, always hears what he wants, and he picks up the pace again, knowing how close McCree is. “Yes, I’m, _ohhhhh_ fuck, I’m desperate for it, I’m, _ffffffuck_.” He squirms, gasps, babbling incoherently through arguably the most mind-blowing orgasm of his existence thus far. He feels the warmth fill his boxers, he moans, loudly, and Reyes tightens the grip on his throat, one last time, cutting off McCree’s moan violently. 

Only then does Reyes finish, a growl from deep in his chest, grinding erratically over McCree’s oversensitive dick, causing him to spasm a little. 

Then the hand is gone from his throat completely, the hand holding his wrists disappears too, and Reyes leans back on his spread knees, a wet stain now forming in the front of his jeans. McCree just lays there, breathing heavily, closing his eyes.

Then the weight is gone, and McCree pries his eyes open to see Reyes standing, dusting himself off. He looks down at McCree, smirks a little, huffs out a laughter. “Don’t think this changed anything, _cabrón_ ,” he says, walking out of the boxing ring, leaving McCree laying on the floor in a post-orgasmic haze. 

“You still suck at sparring.”

**Author's Note:**

> FEEDBACK APPRECIATED this was legit written on such a random whim but i just rolled with it.
> 
> i totally listened to the red dead redemption ost while writing this too, so thats title credit, the track Horseplay
> 
> OH and i do not speak spanish but researched all the terms reyes calls mccree, but if its off please tell me and i am more than happy to edit!


End file.
